X First Dates
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: Going on a first date is always a delightful experience. But is it the same for John Watson... Especially when it's technically not a first date? A story of how love can overcome the most permanent of losses, no matter how impossible they may seem to be. John/Sherlock. Amnesia!Lock. Healing!John. 50 First Dates adaptation AU, but not crossover.
1. Day 1

**So, 'X' here in the title is a variable because I don't know how many. But I'll try to make this atleast thirty. I'll try to update this atleast once a week. Any late updates, entirely the fault of my not-so-creative brain.**

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><p>Day 1: 21st November, 2014<p>

The Speedy's is a cafe on the ground floor of the apartment building number 221 owned by Mrs. Hudson. It is where she spends most of her time baking things or at scratch cards with Mr. Chaterjee. Sometimes, when Sherlock Holmes deigns to eat, usually Mrs. Hudson makes him some kind of breakfast that will not interfere with his violin playing or his general idea of clashing with the sulks he throws across. But mostly, he spends his time at Speedy's, observing people, honing his deductive skills. He believes that the science of deduction is an ongoing process which can never be perfectly mastered, and since he has nothing productive to do, he sits and he observes.

And if anyone opened up his skull, and peeped into the mental processes of Sherlock's brain, they would see that the connections he makes is incredibly, _incredibly_ obvious.

For example: the man who just entered is dripping wet, and his hair is wet too. That means it must be raining outside.

Sherlock cranes his neck to look outside, and looks pleased with his deduction. It is raining indeed.

But there have been some changes over at 221. For example, the skull is no longer there, Sherlock has stopped solving crimes with his blogger, and Mrs. Hudson isn't there in the flat anymore, or anywhere in the world. Otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have to come down for his breakfast ritual. And now, Sherlock's brother owns apartment building number 221, believing that if there's anything that can make Sherlock feel at home, it's 221B.

Sherlock's eyes track upwards. The man who had been dripping wet comes down and sits across him at _his _table, to his annoyance. But he doesn't say anything, thinking that he must be polite and blow the man off, lest he should interfere with his mental processes.

"It's raining cats and dogs, isn't it?" the man says, taking his jacket off and setting it on the chair next to him.

"No," Sherlock folds his arms, "It's raining water, otherwise you wouldn't be dripping wet."

The blond man watches him with a sadness Sherlock has never seen before. Not that Sherlock has known much sadness. The corners of his lips quirk and he swallows. Sherlock congratulates himself for having examined such minute details, and decides that he will improve much more tomorrow.

"John," the man says.

Sherlock glances at the hand that the man extends to him. John has his eyes fixed into Sherlock's and frankly he finds it disturbing to find himself at the pinpoint of John's intense scrutiny. Sherlock wonders whether this John man is superior to him in terms of deduction.

In that case, he must extend his hand too, so that he can learn from him without ever having to admit it that he is his apprentice, "I am Sherlock."

If anyone cared to reach into John's chest, they would've found his heart dying in two uneven pieces with a million smaller shards lying around it. Nevertheless, John swallows. "It's a different name," he blurts out without thinking, "but. . . I like it."

Sherlock's eyes light up in excitement at his name being called 'different', like the way John has known his eyes lighting up whenever he finds a corpse. Well, that was appropriate anyway. John was a corpse after all. But he, unthinkingly, takes Sherlock's hands in his, feeling the familiar contours against his skin. Sherlock first frowns a little, taken aback at the gesture, but then he can feel the calluses and the corns on the palms. A lot of them, diverse, and each one different from the next. Interesting. He remembers having learnt from Mycroft that one could perceive a lot from a person's hands and decides to indulge John.

"Is that how you do handshake?" Sherlock asks slyly, as John's hands linger a bit too much.

"Not okay?"

Sherlock giggles like a child at the tickling sensation, and John smiles back, his heart filling with a feeling that he likes but it is too overwhelming. He doesn't have a label to it. John wishes nothing more but to raise Sherlock's hands and kiss them, like he used to, countless times before, together in bed during those lazy Sunday mornings, the mornings which were slow, honey-like and warm lips against lips, and then skin and hands travelling over one another, promising a lifetime together.

"No, not very okay," Sherlock agrees, "Actually my name's William, Sherlock's my middle name. . . one of my two middle names. I don't know why I have two middle names, but. . . I like 'Sherlock' too.""

"It is a beautiful name," John agrees hoarsely, and every second looking into Sherlock's eyes feels like a blade pressed against his shoulder, right where he had been hit by the bullet, and then slowly trickling blood, "As are your eyes."

Sherlock's hands wrap around his slowly as he explores his palms too, but his eyes are not soft and hazy with love. They're intrigued, and they look like they're trying to assess whether John is of any value or not. Finally they relax, and a lazy smile spreads across his cheeks with a small flush of colour. He looks down and mutters, "Thank you," bashfully, like the way he always used to do when his guards were down, or when they had been dissolved by alcohol. Although, there are no guards left now, are there?

John knows he is a masochist sometimes, so he simply says, "You're welcome." His heart breaks when he sees how perfectly his smaller fingers fit in the spaces between those of Sherlock's.

They don't see the waitress looking at them and muttering, "fags". Angelo hisses at her to leave them alone.

"Well. . . you have nice eyes too," Sherlock comments back, "Blue... like the ocean. I've always loved the ocean... so grand and endless, and I have no idea why I am telling you this," he finishes with a giggle.

John forces himself to order something for both of them, lest he be caught with tears in his eyes, something that Sherlock's eyes cannot miss even in this state, "You can tell me... You've always loved the ocean, you say?"

Sherlock thinks hard, uncertainty flickering over his face, "Now that I think about it... I don't know. I _just_ said it..."

"Yeah, happens to me too," he says, wishing if Sherlock could say 'I love you' to him _just_ like that too, "So... got any boyfriend?"

Sherlock tries to remember, wondering why John was asking such a question. He decides to play along like people do when they're being courted, just as an experiment. After all, he's supposed to be a grown up, and going by the number of rom-coms mummy and daddy watch, dating is like a religion to common people. He should do what grownups did.

"No." After some moments of hesitation, he adds, "Do you?"

John responds with a no too. And then, against every single nerve in his body, he asks him out. Sherlock's incredulity is as clear as crystal on his face. John looks down at his neck. He has worn the scarf the wrong way.

Sherlock belatedly realises that he's got himself into a mess by playing along. He didn't think John would want a date so quickly. Well, as long as a date was just two people going out and having fun. . .

"That's very quick of you," Sherlock replies, still confused between friendship and courtship, but this time not letting go of John's hand, and making drenched fireworks exploding in John's stomach, "We've only met fifteen minutes."

John tries to undo that sentence. He did not hear that. He wishes he hadn't heard that. But he has and the more he tries to forget it, the stronger it embeds itself into his mind.

"Yes, I know," he tries to keep his voice steady, although he doubts if Sherlock will be able to tell the difference at all, "I'm just asking you for another. . . time." He does not say 'date'.

This time Sherlock blushes again, excited at having being asked out for the first time.

The Sherlock Holmes that John knew never blushed this freely, and John is at a loss to understand how Sherlock used to be able to control such an involuntary reaction.

Sherlock orders a cappuccino, pausing before he can say the name properly. John orders black coffee without sugar. Ever the intrigued one, Sherlock sips from John's cup of coffee, wondering how coffee tastes without sugar.

"How do you drink _this?"_ Sherlock exclaims, the drama queen in him still not gone, "It's so bitter!"

"I like my coffee to taste like coffee," John replied, "Yours is worse. How do you taste the coffee over all of the sugar?"

They don't speak for sometime. Sherlock steals several glances of John. And then out of blue-

"We can pretend that this is a date instead," he suggests, forgetting their earlier conversation like it has never happened, a tongue darting out and licking the froth away.

John shifts very slightly in his seat, remembering the feel of those lips and that tongue.

"What do people do on dates?"

"I'm not pretending," John speaks, willing his voice to never break down, not in front of the love of his life at least, "I thought I was on a real date with you."

"Well..." Sherlock looks away, a little smile adorning his pink lips, "I suppose that could work out, but you'll need to walk me through it. . . I haven't dated in a while," he lies sheepishly, "what day was it again?"

"Erm," John checks his watch, "21st August, 2014."

Sherlock frowns, "So, it rains this heavily in August, does it?"

"Yeah," John shrugs, "but it's worse in November."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, much like the previous Sherlock and John's heart gives a bitter twinge at that, "Are we really talking about weather on our _date_, John?"

It feels like an entire universe has opened up when Sherlock takes his name. He has taken John's name on his lips after three full months, and his heart is soaring. He wishes he could've recorded it, only to play it over and over again when he is alone in his tiny beige flat with two small windows and a cane reminding him of the return of the limp in his leg. There were so many times John had hated Sherlock to be able to convince him to buy groceries or go and pay Mycroft a visit just by rolling his name on his tongue. So many times he had dropped the name carelessly.

John wishes he had cherished those times.

"What would you like to talk about?" says he with an inviting smile.

"You?" he suggests weakly, "because I'm sure I'll come up with something about myself as we go."

John manages a fake laugh at that, something that Sherlock is no longer able to tell. The overwhelming feeling is there in his chest again, and it rises like bile in his throat, mixing horribly with the sandwich that he gulps down to keep himself from throwing up. It is against the rules of biology, he knows that the more he'll eat, the more he's going to throw up later, but if Sherlock can defy them, why not he? He did that twice, didn't he?

"I'm a doctor. I treat people when they're sick."

"Sick? What sort of 'sick'? Injuries? Or infections or surgery or general practice?" Sherlock asks in genuine confusion, and John has to stop himself from punching Sherlock in the face in the hope that his brains get all mixed up and that he becomes the cold piece of brilliance who was a little too ticklish in his right knee and who kissed like he wanted to steal every breath from John and deny him a chance to live.

"All sorts, but because I went to the army, I was usually treating more injuries than germs."

"Hmm..." Sherlock stares into a distance infinite miles away from where John is sitting now, "What sort of person becomes a doctor only to go to the army? Why would a healer go to war?"

It's almost his breaking point, and John excuses himself to go to the lavatory. Sherlock shrugs and innocently allows him to.

Once the door is securely bolted behind him, once the world is against him, behind the barrier of the four walls, John tries to cry. Tears don't come to him. They simply blur his vision, but they don't make their descent down his cheeks. He looks at his watch. It is November the 21st, but the watch is still stuck on 21st August, 2014, choosing not to move on, like him, or like Sherlock, like a sickening iteration of days and routines over and over again, much like his life before Sherlock.

_Why would a healer go to war?_

Sherlock had been the first one to discover the answer. That it was imprinted deep in his bones, beneath the knotted, rising flesh of his bullet wound, where the bone still holds the scrape marks, the shatter line, the physical memory of breaking and bleeding into foreign sand.

But now, it's just Sherlock remaining, not Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He has lost everything without even being conscious of it, and he's still laughing away like a child.

John puts on his most charming smile, and saunters comfortably out of the washroom. Sherlock is looking at him excitedly, tucking into his meal and talking with food in his mouth, and it is an altogether different scene to watch. He has never thought he would get to see it.

Their conversation carries and flows normally as it breaks the remaining pieces of John's broken heart to see Sherlock's brilliant mind lying waste like that, and for the first time, it feels like Sherlock is just as ordinary man.

Nothing like Sherlock Holmes, who could kiss to kill, but a different man who was afraid to open his mouth to him. Because when this Sherlock kisses him, it's still slow and experimental, but it's still sweet and honey-like with the toe-curling sensation as he tentatively wraps his arm around John's shoulders, as they stand in the rain and John's hands travel all over his back like he is a drowning man, but it's not the same. It's intuitive, and not with the single-minded intensity that Sherlock Holmes possessed.

Maybe because Sherlock and Sherlock _Holmes_ were two different people.

Or maybe because John has changed. At this moment, anything is possible.

But one thing is certain. It is nothing like how Sherlock Holmes kissed John. But nevertheless, even if it hurts him, John kisses back, slowly plying his mouth open. Sherlock seems to hesitate, but then he opens his mouth against John's, touching his tongue with his tentatively, still experimenting as his grip on John becomes stronger. He doesn't taste of cigarette anymore. He tastes of nothingness and confusion and bewilderment and mint toothpaste.

John knows he's being wrong, that Sherlock doesn't want it. That he's uncomfortable. . . simply playing along.

But he can't help it. He can't.

Sherlock breaks away breathlessly, sounding like he's begging to John to continue this, this phase of novel joy and excitement and the new feelings in him.

"So. . . I'll see you. . . this evening?"

"Tomorrow."

Tomorrow?"

John only promises a hollow promise, knowing fully well that that tomorrow is never going to arrive.

"Yes."

"I stay upstairs," his face is expectant, "221B."

John restrains himself from revealing to him that he knows. But just to show Sherlock that he's going to remember it, he writes down the address on the paper. Sherlock's happiness seems to triple at that.

With a chaste goodbye kiss, he throws away the paper, and just stands near 221, waiting for a cab so that he can go home and mend his heart, only to have it broken the next day, over and over again.

He tries to cry, knowing that this way his tears would be run down by the rain, but they still don't come.

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><p><strong>So... guess what's wrong with Sherlock?<strong>

**Did you notice something wrong with the date that John gave him when Sherlock casually asked him?**


	2. Day 2

**Things are much more complicated than they first appeared to be... can you guess now?**

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><p>Day 2: 22nd November, 2014<p>

The Speedy's is a cafe on the ground floor of the apartment building number 221 formerly owned by Mrs. Hudson. It is where she used to spend most of her time baking pies or at scratch cards with late Mr. Chatterjee. Sometimes, when Sherlock Holmes deigns to eat, usually Mrs. Hudson used to make him some kind of breakfast that will not interfere with his violin playing or his general idea of clashing with the sulks he throws across. But mostly, he spends his time at Speedy's, observing people, honing his deductive skills. He believes that the science of deduction is an ongoing process which can never be perfectly mastered, and since he has nothing productive to do, he sits and he observes.

And if anyone opened up his skull, and peeped into the mental processes of Sherlock's brain, they would see that the connections he makes is incredibly, _incredibly_ obvious.

For example: the man who just entered is British, caucasian, and his hair is light. That means he must be a blond.

Sherlock cranes his neck to look at him, and looks pleased with his deduction. He is a blond indeed.

But there have been some changes over at 221. For example, the skull is no longer there, Sherlock has stopped solving crimes with his blogger, and Mrs. Hudson isn't there in the flat anymore, or anywhere in the world. Otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have to come down for his breakfast ritual. And now, Sherlock's brother owns apartment building number 221, believing that if there's anything that can make Sherlock feel at home, it's 221B.

He looks away, and buries himself into_ Pride and Prejudice. _He cannot help but wonder why Mr. Darcy is such a blithering fool. And it is these moments when he gets bored with the angst in there that he tries his hand at the science of deduction. His eyes fall on the blond again, who sits two tables away from him, sipping a coffee, and then he turns to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock looks away at once, feeling the man's gaze on his skin. He shifts very slightly in his seat and goes back to his book. Enough with deductions for a moment. But he cannot shake the uncomfortable feeling that somehow, that man is thinking about him.

And then, he lifts his head from the book and finds the man looking at him with an expectant face, "Hey, erm... I'm John. Could you help me? I'm new to London."

Sherlock looks at him skeptically, and then around him. There are many people, and why is he disturbing only him? "I'm sorry, you should go to someone else, I can't spare the time."

And with that, Sherlock rises and walks out promptly out of Speedy's, leaving John bemused instead of heartbroken. Angelo, who has left his restaurant to his nephew just so that he can take care of Sherlock, goes over to John and sits down, nodding his head sympathetically.

"Does he remember even you?" John croaks. Angelo shakes his head.

"Only his brother, his parents—and that too what they were like, and everyone else back when Sherlock was eight—or nine. They... erm, got one of their nephews who looks a lot like Mr. Mycroft Holmes did when he was sixteen. Mrs. Holmes stays with him—while pretending to be his grandma," Angelo looks sadly at one of the new customers, "They're just... thankful that she looks a lot like her mother—"

"Mycroft told you that?"

"Yeah," Angelo pats his back, "He visits twice a day. Sherlock thinks he is his Uncle Rudy..."

John swallows, remembering that Uncle Rudy was the crossdresser, and doesn't bother to think what Mycroft has to go through now, dressing up like a woman in front of Sherlock to make it look believable, "Doesn't he think why he is like that, all... grown up and six feet even when he is—nine? I mean... he is still clever, right?"

Then, John remembers that they had told Sherlock that he had some sort of thyroid malfunction which had made his body shoot up over night. But he can't wonder how Sherlock, of all people believed it, or maybe he must be now searching for it in books and reading it aloud to his mum/grandmum. Angelo looks at his face, and understands his qualms.

"He has the brain of a nine-year-old... I mean what he was like when he was nine. That's why he didn't bother with the..." Angelo clasps his hands together, in an attempt to show what Sherlock and John had been doing in the cafe the previous day, "you know..."

John absently trails his fingers over his hands, where they had been entangled with Sherlock's the previous day. He wonders what magic he had done yesterday to have got to kiss Sherlock right on the first date. But then he remembers, having the brain of a nine-year-old, Sherlock doesn't have much restrain over his actions or his feelings like an adult or even a teen would. He does not _think _through, the one thing which had gained him international fame and reputation had been snatched away from him.

"John..." Angelo puts his hand on John's shoulder, "If Mr. Mycroft Holmes sees you here..."

"I know—I know," he swallows bitterly, wondering why _he _was the only one to be left out of Sherlock's life. But then, Sherlock wouldn't understand, would he? He was just a child now. An actual onslaught of emotions is too much for John to handle and he rises abruptly and leaves. He knows Mycroft is trying to save him from his heartbreak, and that it is in both of their best interests to forget each other. Hell, Sherlock had even forgotten him.

He glances at his watch still stuck on 21st August, 2014. And probably so is Sherlock's, but John suspects that it is rather stuck on 1986 instead of 2014. The watches haven't moved on too.

He would do anything to escape into a god-to-honest meltdown. Sometimes, he hates himself for being a man, a British ex-soldier. He hates the fact that he is a soldier and that it is hard, such things, and that he can't get them out and off his chest when they should.

And then he remembers that if it weren't for these qualities, Sherlock would never even have probably risked a second glance in his direction.

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><p><em>21st August, 2014<em>

_"I mean, like, seriously, John!" Sherlock laughs, drawing him closer, "One morning round, please!"_

_"Sherlock, I just showered!" John tries to shove him away, instead ending under Sherlock like a heap of skin and bones and laughter, "And anyway, it's bad luck for the bride to see the groom before the wedding!"_

_"So," Sherlock adopts an expression of deep thought, "I am the groom and you are the bride, so you're going to walk the aisle for me," he winks at him, but in a moment of weakness, John overturns them so that he is on top, "No! I am the groom and you're the bride, and your dad will walk you through."_

_"Shut up!" Sherlock kisses him playfully, and then takes advantage of John's weakness to turn them over again, "I am the groom because I am taller!"_

_"I am the groom because I am older!"_

_"My name starts with 'H'."_

_"Seriously, Sherlock?!" John laughs and then pulls him closer, drawing the sheets over them as they press together, chest to chest, forehead to forehead, "We're gonna start fighting since _before_ we get married?!"_

_"Yup," Sherlock replies, popping the 'p' like always, and then all of a sudden, he comes close and licks the toothpaste off the corner of John's lips. John responds by sliding his hand over the tell-tale bulge between Sherlock's pyjama pants, "Okay. One_ very_ quick shag."_

_"Wait," Sherlock joins their foreheads together, and smiles serenely, "I love you - "_

_To his surprise, John turns him over, and grins maliciously, "I know, drama queen."_

_Sherlock rolls his eyes, even as he stifles the moan tearing itself from his lips, "I'm not the drama queen, John. I'm the dancing queen."_

_John snorts against his skin, sending goosebumps down his spine as he chases every bit of skin revealing under Sherlock's shirt with an open-mouthed kiss._

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><p><em>Greg is John's best man at the wedding, while Sherlock has elected Mrs. Hudson as the bridesmaid. They were supposed to arrive an hour ago, but now the guests were waiting, and to John's unconcealed surprise, Greg is more worried than John.<em>

_"Why aren't they here?" Greg is impatient, and for the first time, John sees him so jittery, "They should've been here an hour ago - "_

_"Seriously, Greg!" John is the one calming him down instead of the other way instead, "Maybe Sherlock got kicked out, you know, for making the driver go nuts," he tries to snort at his own joke, but he finds that he can't. Even he is a little nervous. Sherlock is never late for anything. He is always just on time. It just doesn't fit with his OCD._

_"You got them the address right, didn't you?!"_

_"Sherlock had it carved on his beloved skull, Greg, seriously, maybe it's just the traffic!"_

_"You two live together, so you should've come together!" he hisses, "I don't know, John... Sherlock, he's always on time, or mostly earlier. He's never late."_

_"Yeah, well... I told him I would leave when he does, but one of his clients had called him. Said it was at least an 8 and he told me that he would arrive a little late."_

_"Typical Sherlock," Greg mutters, "Solving cases before the wedding."_

_"Yeah..." John wonders what is taking Sherlock so long._

_It doesn't take long for Mycroft's call to arrive, "John," he actually can hear him swallow something dry and painful down his throat, "There's been an accident."_

_It's all that the guests need to know that there won't be any wedding taking place that day. Harry Watson is the first one to rise and run away to the free bar, choosing alcohol over her shocked brother._

_John Watson did not know that it really was bad luck for the bride to see the groom before the wedding._

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><p>John looks at a distance to see a black car approaching and coming to a stop near him. The door opens, and there is Mycroft Holmes sitting in the driver's seat, dressed like a woman, obviously having no chauffeur to witness such a scene. Somehow, the scene isn't as funny as it should be. The windows are tinted, so it's only John who can see him in such a condition. He wonders how many lives Sherlock's head and that accident has affected, and suddenly, he sees beyond the abject misery that he feels.<p>

"Get in John," he says, feeling miserable at having to face his brother's ex-fiance in such a state, "I have fifteen minutes to answer whatever it is that you have. After that, you must walk out of Sherlock's life."

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><p><strong>Review?<strong>


	3. You're Not The Only One Who's Affected

**This is a bonus chapter, with a little peek into what is happening inside 221B at the moment, and of course, how Mycroft is dealing with it.**

**Yes, I know I said I'd update at least once a week but I got fixed on my other WIPs.**

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><p>John looks at a distance to see a black car approaching and coming to a stop near him. The door opens, and there is Mycroft Holmes sitting in the driver's seat, dressed like a woman, obviously having no chauffeur to witness such a scene. Somehow, the scene isn't as funny as it should be. The windows are tinted, so it's only John who can see him in such a condition. He wonders how many lives Sherlock's head and that accident has affected, and suddenly, he sees beyond the abject misery that he feels.<p>

"Get in John," he says, feeling miserable at having to face his brother's ex-fiance in such a state, "I have fifteen minutes to answer whatever it is that you have. After that, you must walk out of Sherlock's life."

John looks down at his sneakers, and then slips inside smoothly, "He thinks you're... Uncle Rudy—"

"Laugh all you like, John," Mycroft snaps, putting on some lipstick shoddily on his thin, firmly set lips while his brows burn with shame, and there's something else, guilt. Survivor's guilt. John knows that although Mycroft is miles ahead of him at being the master of emotional paralysis, the little ways in which he ensures that his brother thinks that everything around him is normal and in August of 1986 speaks another tale.

"Don't be ridiculous..." John looks away, his heartbeat slowing down for a reason he doesn't understand. Is it because he finds peace that he is not the only one who is in the all-consuming pain? Or is it because he is not the one who has to watch the grown-up, thirty seven year old Sherlock Holmes crumbling everyday and laughing at small, insignificant things that would never have come out of his otherwise controlled mouth? He is just glad that Mrs. Hudson isn't here anymore to watch him downgraded from the brain of the World's only consulting detective to that of the child who has not even struck his puberty, and who is still free to physical touch and kissing. Suddenly John begins wondering with who Sherlock's first kiss might have been.

"What stage is it? The Carl Powers—"

"Carl Powers came in 1989, thankfully. Sherlock is still fixed on 1986."

"So... Redbeard—?"

"He comes a month later. Sherlock is still... well, happy," Mycroft fixes his wig, and looks at his pocket-watch resting on his regular clothes on the backseat, as John is consumed by waves of overpowering silence.

And then suddenly, Mycroft's words strike him, and he counters back defensively, "Sherlock was very happy with me."

But Mycroft only laughs sarcastically at that, and John's eyes narrow, and he looks away, "This isn't right... Yesterday, he asked me if it rains in August. I said yes, and he looked doubtful. I bet he even checked up books. What's going to happen when December comes around and it starts snowing? What will you tell him then, that it snows in August?!"

But Mycroft pretends not to listen to him. He simply looks away, avoiding John's eyes and wallowing in self-hatred that he had come out of the accident with only a broken arm and few broken ribs while his own brother had lost everything and yet, he remains blissfully ignorant of it. He avoids answering John's questions like he always has done in the past. Instead of the deep ache in his chest and the loneliness and the need to see Sherlock in front of him that is sometimes too much, even if it meant being invisible to the rest of the world, there is now this obtuse irritation that Mycroft is behaving so childishly.

"What's going to happen when he wakes up thirty years from now, and demands to know how his face has aged over the night, or how his hair has become grey? Are you going to blame that on thyroid malfunction too... or—or something as absurd as progeria—?"

"Believe me, John," Mycroft growls, his jaw muscles working furiously as he turns to look at John with guilt in his eyes, and more than that, with disbelief that John would think that he would not cover that, "I worry about that. Every day of my life."

John cannot help but think for one extremely heartless, selfish moment that Mycroft should've been the one instead of Sherlock.

"Now if you'll excuse me, John," Mycroft drapes a shawl around himself, and hides his face from the rest of the world. For a split second, John is reminded of the aura of power he had felt around him when he met him for the first time, the cool nonchalance, the dominating Iceman as opposed to the brother who is trying to hide himself from the people who were looking around at him. He looks at Mycroft's right hand.

His umbrella is missing.

Mycroft turns around, and for one second, his mask falls, "If it helps anyway, you should come. Preferably now."

John swallows. A week's notice might have been better. He isn't ready to see Sherlock in 221B, a Sherlock he has never known before. But then, he is a masochist, and he has always wondered about Sherlock's childhood. This is the closest he can come to it.

Not being able to speak, he nods smartly, and Mycroft assumes a perfectly faux-cheerful face. Despite it, and despite the amount of makeup on his middle-aged face, John can still make out the tired lines and the falsehood in them. Although he doubts if Sherlock can do that too.

"Wish me Happy Birthday, John," says he resignedly, and enters the flat with John limping behind him.

John feels like he has arrived in another world, maybe a 21st century-proofed version of 221B Baker Street. There's no headphones on the bovine skull, no laptop, no television, no sophisticated science equipment, or as he suspects, no body parts in the fridge... nothing whatsoever to indicate that this is 2014, or the flat that John had come to look at with Sherlock back when he had been invalided home.

Sherlock is curled up in his armchair in his night pyjamas, doing crossword puzzles in the daily newspaper while a gangly teen with freckles and a rounded stomach, who John suspects is playing teenage Mycroft, is taunting him for being so stupid for not knowing the meaning of "connoisseur". For a second, John wants to push that boy away, and shield Sherlock from him, like he has always done, like he has always stood up for him in the Yard when Anderson and Donovan used to call him a freak or a psychopath.

Used to, John thinks, a hollow feeling blooming in his chest.

John now knows how Sherlock knows about so many big words that used to make him look them up in the dictionary when Sherlock wasn't around. He has always figured that Sherlock is a public school fella, going by the speech, but the accent and the words made him sound posh, undoubtedly the effect of the big brother in the house.

Despite everything in him, he looks down, and contracts and flexes his fingers, "You were a real tit back then."

Mrs. Holmes turns towards them, and Sherlock raises one eye at the newcomers, and looks down, looking almost uninterested. John hopes that Sherlock's eyes are going to rest on him too, but Mycroft's huge figure overshadows him as he steps forward, extending his arms towards his mother, "Madeleine!"

"Rudy! Happy Birthday!" She air-kisses him on the cheek, and the teenage Mycroft rolls his eyes. John still stands in the doorway, feeling as if he and Sherlock have embarked on a time machine and they have gone back into the past, except now Sherlock is a part of it. It strikes John that inside 221B, he is now no longer a part of Sherlock's life.

"Mike! Sherl! Come here and say Happy Birthday to your Uncle Rudy!"

John now sees why they have to be so careful when it came to recreating the past environment for Sherlock, because his love has his eyes open and darting in every direction. Well, nearly every. He hasn't spotted John yet, who has now retreated back to the shadows.

Sherlock doesn't react, but the teenage Mycroft gets up, and he looks like he is going to hug his "Uncle Rudy", but in the end, he ends up dipping his index finger into the cake that Mrs. Holmes has prepared for him.

"Why don't you get yourself a corset with that lovely dress, Uncle Rudy?" He remarks.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twist upwards in amusement, and he too opens his mouth to say something too, like his big brother, but teenage Mycroft intervenes, "Don't even try, Sherlock. You're too stupid for it."

"Mycroft Holmes!" Their mother's voice rings out from the kitchen, scandalised, "He is your brother! I _will_ tell your mother about your disrespectful conduct, young man!"

For a split second, John's eyes travel to the Mycroft dressed as Uncle Rudy, looking almost shameful at the demonstration of his behaviour towards Sherlock when he was a teenager. Sherlock looks sad, genuinely sad and a little miffed at having being called idiot, but then almost immediately, he squeals with delight at having completing his crossword puzzle.

"Boys," Mycroft's voice rumbles, "No gifts for me?"

Teenage-Mycroft and Sherlock roll their eyes dramatically and identically. Mycroft tries to laugh good-humouredly and pats teenage-Mycroft's head. He simply shakes his head and goes and locks himself in Sherlock's room, a room where John has spent the best times of his life in.

"Well, then Rudy, come here and blow the candles out," she stops and looks at Sherlock expectantly, who John can tell is waiting for the request, his body frozen, taut with anticipation.

"Sherlock, do you want to blow the candles for Uncle Rudy?"

Sherlock has always been an overgrown child, John thinks. But he had no idea that one day, it might just come true. He shoots out of his chair and blows the candles. Mycroft is looking at his younger brother not with disdain or even pity. There's genuine happiness in his eyes to see his little brother so carefree, and little, in all wrong senses of the word, in sync with the sadness in him. John cannot imagine what Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes must be going through all day, having to see their own brother and son like that, childish and naive and lost in the bliss of his childhood, like a broken record repeating itself over and over.

A single tear manages to gather at the corner of his left eye. John tries to shed it, and in the end, he ends up only wiping it away. Sherlock is offered the cake that John suspects is made by Mrs. Holmes everyday for Uncle Rudy. Her tired eyes meet John's and they become surprised. Sherlock and Mycroft follow her gaze, and Sherlock looks at him weirdly, wondering what the person who was new to London was doing in their house. Mycroft seems to feel the tension that stiffens John's shoulders and reaches out to introduce him to them.

"This is erm..."

John replies, giving him a much-needed break from everything, "Hi, I'm John, I'm new in London," he turns to Sherlock who, John can see is immersed in the next interesting, _sufficiently_ distracting piece of puzzle in the newspaper. Sherlock always asked for new things, interesting things, and now here he is, doing the same thing, living the same day everyday. So strange are the ways of nature, so mysterious that if John bends down in front of Sherlock and tells him the ultimate truth that they were about to be married, Sherlock won't understand its worth, its meaning to John more than that of a pea.

Or maybe he will. He is Sherlock, after all. He found the Carl Powers case strange when he was a kid.

Mycroft's eyes narrow before he picks up the story effortlessly, "Yes... I've been showing Mr. John around. Charity work, isn't that right, Maddy?"

John lowers his gaze from Sherlock's figure when he realises that Mrs. Holmes is watching him closely. She isn't looking at him like she used to three months ago. Unable to take it no more, he gives them a smart military nod, and pats Mycroft on the shoulder, "I'll see you downstairs, alright My—Rudy?" He hastily corrects himself, gaining an elevated eyebrow and a deductive whisper of 'army' from Sherlock, and trots downstairs, collapsing at the last step. Mycroft is taking his time upstairs, and John is nothing if not grateful. He looks around at the banister where Sherlock usually used to hang his greatcoat after a particularly exhausting case when they couldn't make it to a diner and had to settle for takeout.

The echo of 'used to' is just too great over everything that moves through John.

He presses his finger to his eyes as he hears the snippets of violin in his memory and the lovely evening talks with Mrs. Hudson. His eyes rest on the bicycle stashed up against the wall. Her flat is probably empty now, and wiping the non-existent tears from his face, John stands up, smart and military posture and runs his eyes on the familiar door of 221A, now obscured by a curtain with "Hello Kitty" figures.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. John," Mycroft's voice wafts downstairs from the first floor landing, and his footsteps cease. He has seen John trying to see what they have made of 221A. He dips his head, now less self-conscious of his attire and presses a finger to his lip. "Sherlock mustn't know," he whispers.

Before John can ask what, Mycroft grimaces and utters under his breath what suspiciously sounds like "such monstrosities". He takes out a key and inserts it into the door.

John is overwhelmed. He is speechless. The Holmeses were really one of a kind.

Inside, there's a year worth of supply of the _Times_ paper of August 21st, 1986, a line of china doll figurines beside several broken ones (he suspects that Sherlock breaks one every day), a hidden supply of greasing oil and a tin box containing countless nuts and bolts, all of the bicycle whose manufacturing company was probably discontinued after 2000. There are other paraphernalia which John suspects keep Sherlock's life repeating over and over again, like the violin polish. He can almost imagine the entire Holmes family getting up in the night like shoemaker's elves, instead to reset everything that happened over the day, like diminishing the shine of the violin that Sherlock polishes so meticulously over the day, or keeping a few china doll figurine on the shelf for Sherlock to destroy the next day, or to replace and reset the chaos that Sherlock creates in his home or to destroy whatever their son makes in his free time.

It strikes him that even though Sherlock struggled to keep people away from himself for the rest of his life and called himself a high-functioning sociopath, he still has so many people to love him and take care of him so much that they're ready to go through the same thing and routine everyday.

"Sherlock fixes his bicycle everyday, like he did on August of 21st," Mycroft reveals, "Of course, Anthony dismantles it after Sherlock goes off for sleep."

"Anthony?"

"The boy who's playing me upstairs."

After sometime, Mycroft adds in an undertone, "The boy who has taken my place as Sherlock's brother." John simply nods. It's interesting to see how no lock can keep the ex-detective away but a simple "Hello Kitty" curtain can. Mycroft glances at him and realises his thought-process.

"It's not like Sherlock hasn't been in this room," he sighs, "Everytime he finds out that there's something odd because of these newspapers, he throws a temper tantrum. Once or twice he has even found out and we had to rush him to his doctor to explain him everything, but—you know..." he trails away.

"Every morning he wakes up, his memory resets and he has no recollection of whatever happened the previous day, whatsoever," John supplies blandly, crossing his hand over his chest, and looking at the hundreds of packs of violin strings lying there.

"Precisely. The most difficult part is that Sherlock is very observant. Even though he can't do deductions at this stage, it is fairly difficult to keep things from him... for example, this is a stage where he became obsessed with violin. My mother... she isn't a fan of sweet food, so Sherlock insists upon going to the cafe. Angelo is there..." Mycroft runs his fingers through several broken pieces of cutlery, "He makes sure that no one talks to him, or that no one sits near him."

"What about school?" John asks, and for a moment, Mycroft's face looks unreadable.

"We convince him everyday that we're on sightseeing in London, and that we're staying in a guest house. He loved London, even as a child—"

John sucks in a sharp breath, now angry instead of miserable, angry at not being allowed to be a part of Sherlock's life when so much has happened, however screwed up it is, "So, that's it then."

The impassive look on Mycroft's face is infuriating, "What's _what_ then, precisely?"

"Your grand plan," he gives a humourless laugh, "You're just happy that he wakes up every morning with his memory slate wiped clean so you don't have to _bother_—"

"John," he begins warningly, his eyes darting upwards on their own accord, "I think it's time for you to leave."

"What right do _you_ get, staying around him? I'm his family as much as you are—"

To his surprise, Mycroft grabs his arm, and drags him outside. His grip is surprisingly strong, almost bruising. He locks the door safely behind him as John carries on in muted tones, reminding Mycroft of the loopholes in his arrangement. He does not pause to think how the Holmeses hated to be notified of their shortcomings. He does not pause to think that Mycroft has never lowered himself to use physical force on any other person.

Without another look at him, Mycroft saunters out of 221 and, hiding his face from the rest of the world, slips into the car, keeping the door open for John. A few seconds later, John limps after him into it, and he drives away to wherever he can.

* * *

><p>It's only after a decent change of clothes at his residence and relentless click of fingernails over the Blackberry by not-Anthea at John's side that he gets to see Mycroft again. He greets him with only a few words, "Get out of Sherlock's life."<p>

John shakes his head, knowing fully well that Mycroft is capable of deporting him to any remote location in the world, "No."

For the first time, Mycroft makes a threat to John, telling him that he'll send a jet to transport him to the Himalayas or even the Bermuda Triangle, and he sees the terribly, _terribly _terrifying man Mycroft must be in front of the rest of the world. But John still shakes his head, "If this is why you've brought me here, I'd better go. I don't need permission from you to be in Sherlock's life."

"Your romantic and sexual needs will go unfulfilled, John. It's better for you to move on and find someone else," he warns.

The sound of someone else pierces through him. He wants to tell Mycroft that there's no one out there who would make him feel the way he does. And even if he isn't the same Sherlock, the only consolation he has is in knowing that he at least looks like Sherlock and still throws tantrums and sulks around to John like breadcrumbs to birds.

John knows, believes that deep down inside, through the layer of the regularity and routine, he is still the same Sherlock who shot bullets at the wall at half past one.

"I know," says he, feeling incredibly guilty for having kissed Sherlock on the first day. But then, Sherlock was always the curious one, wanting to experiment even at such young an age, "I'll be his nurse if it's as close as I can get."

Mycroft clenches his jaw, "What will you get out of this, except for sadness and pain?"

John shakes his head and laughs humourlessly, "You're making it sound like a burden, Mycroft... Is that what it is to you? Having to stay out of office for—I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you!"

"John, I think—"

"—Do you _even_ know how many people you've kept out of Sherlock's life?! There's Molly, there's Greg, even Sergeant Donovan and Anderson and countless people whose lives Sherlock touched and turned around. There's his whole Homeless Network, and believe it or not, they're people too and they were loyal to him to a degree which you can't even contemplate, Mycroft, because you won't get to see that sort of loyalty in your bloody Secret Service!"

"I assure you, everything—"

"—You're not the only one who's... affected..."

"John—"

"He's your brother, so what? That doesn't make his friends any less, does it? Or me? What if Mrs. Hudson was here too? Would you have kept _her_ out of his life too?!"

He stops, after screaming his heart out to him, to a person who did not deserve this. He knows how difficult he is making this for Mycroft, how much guilt he is placing on his shoulders. John might be selfish, he might be cruel but at this point he doesn't care. If there's one thing he knows in the world, it is that nothing, not even Mycroft Holmes can keep him out of Sherlock's life.

"John," Mycroft observes, "Your limp has returned. For your sake, for _his_ sake, leave him be."

He feels tears brimming in his eyes for the first time in many months, and smartly turns away, limping away the best way he can. If a morning with Sherlock is all he can secure for himself, only to be forgotten about by the time the next day comes around, he'll take that chance.

And only heaven help him.

* * *

><p><strong>Review?<strong>


	4. Day 4

**Warning: the angst is mostly over :)**

* * *

><p>Day 3: 23rd November, 2014<p>

The Speedy's is a cafe on the ground floor of the apartment building number 221 owned by Mrs. Hudson. It is where she used to spend most of her time baking things or at scratch cards with Mr. Chaterjee. Sometimes, when Sherlock Holmes deigns to eat, usually Mrs. Hudson made him some kind of breakfast that would not interfere with his violin playing or his general idea of clashing with the sulks he throws across. But mostly, he spends his time at Speedy's, observing people, honing his deductive skills. He believes that the science of deduction is an ongoing process which can never be perfectly mastered, and since he has nothing productive to do on a Sunday, he sits and he observes.

And if anyone opened up his skull, and peeped into the mental processes of Sherlock's brain, they would see that the connections he makes is incredibly, _incredibly_ obvious.

For example: the man who just entered is holding a rattle. That means that he must be a relative of a one year old. Balance of probability says father more than any other male member of the family.

Sherlock cranes his neck to follow that man with his eyes, and looks pleased with his deduction as the man goes and sits with his family, a blonde woman and a blond baby. The baby stares at Sherlock with wide eyes, studying him from across the restaurant.

Sherlock stares back, wanting to know who can give up first. He tries to emulate the baby's thinking in his own mind. What could a one-year-old child think of, Sherlock wonders. Does it even know how to think? It must, otherwise it wouldn't try to stand up on its own, would it?

After a few seconds, the baby looks away and goes back to sucking its thumb. Sherlock is disheartened. He's gleaned nothing from the child. Children are stupid.

Sherlock restructures his thoughts. _Adults_ are stupid. Children can't be stupid because he is a child too. But _other_ children could be stupid, but not children in general.

He looks down at his notebook, fully covered with a properly aligned name sticker. _William Holmes, grade four, roll no 17._ Sure, his name is William but he introduces himself as Sherlock. He likes how different 'Sherlock' is from 'William'. Anything to be different. Anything for people to look at him with open mouths and awed expressions. He enjoys that.

But there have been some changes over at 221. For example, the skull is no longer there, Sherlock has stopped solving crimes with his blogger, and Mrs. Hudson isn't there in the flat anymore, or anywhere in the world. Otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have to come down for his breakfast ritual.

And now, Sherlock's brother owns the whole 221, believing that if there's anything that can make Sherlock feel at home, it's 221B. That's what the doctors say. And now, Sherlock thinks that he and Mycroft are guests at their Uncle Rudy's crash-in flat for the duration of their surprise sightseeing in London, and their parents would be arriving tomorrow, a tomorrow that never arrives.

"William Holmes, grade four, age nine, roll number seventeen," Sherlock chants to himself studiously. Angelo comes up to him to give him his cup of milk.

"I want coffee!" Sherlock protests angrily like every day, pouting at the whiteness of the milk. Angelo heaves a sigh. They have to keep this charade up. If they don't, Sherlock might come to know that something is up. He is observant enough not to miss that.

"You're too young for coffee. Your mummy told me to get milk for you."

"I don't like milk. It smells. I want to drink coffee like the grownups."

"Oh really?"

Sherlock gives him a death glare, "I _am_ a grownup!"

"You're not a grownup, you _look_ like a grownup. And as far as I remember, you are too young to come down here on your own."

Sherlock meets his eyes stubbornly, "And you're too old to remember correctly."

Angelo hides his fond smile, "Fine, but if tomorrow when your mummy arrives and comes to know that you had coffee, don't come to me crying."

"I do not cry!" Sherlock protests, but accepts the cup of milk anyway. People always do that, think that he's too _young_ for coffee, or in fact anything. Even his mother. But his mother is nice. She's a loving but firm woman. She always ensures that she has her way with her boys.

And Sherlock doesn't always like that. Except when it comes to Mycroft.

Somebody rings the shop bell and Sherlock looks up, at the next subject of his deduction exercise. The man in question is a blond, ashy hair, short stature, blue eyes. Red and green chequered shirt, very horrible. Jacket, burnt sienna. Watch, cheap. Jeans, stain on the left knee, splash of mud on the back. Married, golden wedding band on the ring finger. Limps and leans on his walking stick far too much. Age, thirty five, maybe. Good-looking, Sherlock decides, not to be caught looking at him. One should never make their affections apparent from early on, he had learnt at a very disastrous dance recital.

There is a stiffness and a military-look to him. He looks like that actor in that BBC Christmas movie that Sherlock had decided was extremely unrealistic for a simple substandard primary school nativity.

Sherlock observes him. The man unfolds a newspaper, and Angelo seems to know him. Then he must be a regular here. Or maybe just a friend, not sure. That sort of precision in the deduction process he will be able to do when he grows up, probably.

He watches Angelo give him a small smile and hand him a double jam sandwich and a black coffee. Regular he is. Maybe even diabetic, since he doesn't take it with sugar. But the jam-loaded sandwich?

Or maybe just health conscious.

Or maybe just plain stupid.

The man glances at Sherlock and Sherlock looks away. Soon it is the other way round than it had been. Sherlock is still determinedly looking away and the man is still looking at him. What if he's here to kidnap him? Probably not, because even if he's nine, he still looks like an adult. Well, it's alright. There's some advantage out of thyroid malfunction. Sherlock thinks his condition is absurd but interesting, and again, he has no way of knowing the how and the why of it. Perhaps he'll know more tomorrow.

As for kidnapping, he can fight him if he tries. He had once thrown a roundhouse kick to Percy McCluskey's jaw in the playground once, to extreme delight and an extremely boring week of grounding.

He wonders to himself, with an inward smile, what his classmates would think when they would see a fully grown-up William in their class. Percy McCluskey and his gang won't be able to hurt him or make fun of him anymore. His teachers won't be able to say anything if he pointed out their mistakes. That would be such a relief.

And so much fun.

Or maybe his mummy and daddy would let him sit in higher classes instead because he looks almost like a grown up.

As Angelo moves away from this mystery man, Sherlock calls him with a 'psst', "Mr. Angelo!"

Angelo spots Sherlock with his usual small kind smile, "Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock points discreetly at the blond man, "Who's that man?"

Angelo turns his head towards him, "Oh, that's just a customer."

"Is he a regular?" Sherlock prods further, careful not to give away his curiosity.

"Uh. . . yes he is."

Sherlock nods, and sits back. So that man is a regular, so he can't have known Sherlock because they were only visiting London. So. Moving on. . .

"He's making me uncomfortable. Can you ask him to look away?"

Angelo looks startled at that, "Sherlock, you can't just ask someone to _look away _for no reason."

"It bothers me, good enough reason."

"Well. . ." there's a certain wistfulness to Angelo's facial features before they become bland again, "you could tell him that."

And before Sherlock can stop him, Angelo is already hurtling towards that blond man. Sherlock buries his head in his palms. Bloody grownups, and he can say 'bloody'. It is just a word. There's nothing wrong with saying a bad word or a good word. It's the actions which speak louder.

Meanwhile, the blond man is in front of him, watching him, with Angelo at his side. Sherlock doesn't like the glare being imposed on him.

"Suit yourself," Angelo shrugs, "I've got customers to attend to."

Sherlock doesn't meet the stranger's eyes. But even the stranger doesn't meet his. Then, slowly, very slowly, the man settles in the seat in front of him, "Sorry, if I erm. . . made you uncomfortable. My. . . my friend looked just like you."

Sherlock accepts the apology. Even he would be a little bewildered by that, but not to the extent that ordinary people would, "Look—_ed_? Did he get his face done away by surgery?"

"No," the man huffs out a laugh, ignoring his first implied question, "he, in fact, talked a lot like you."

"Well, I'm not him," Sherlock shrugs, going back to his notebook.

"You could be."

"I'm nine," Sherlock protests unthinkingly to prove himself right, "you can't call a nine-year-old a _friend_? You'd call him a kid."

"Nine?"

"Thyroid malfunction," Sherlock clears upon realising belatedly that he has given himself away, "quite an advantage for me."

There's a flicker of interest in the stranger's eyes. Or maybe one just shouldn't delude oneself too much.

"Your voice too?" he presses on.

"I'm still. . . researching on that."

Now the stranger looks amused, "Researching? Really?"

Sherlock feels hopeless, "If only there was something that we could use to get information easily without having to search in books."

The stranger smiles, "I'm John."

But Sherlock barely pays him attention and continues with his rant, "Not to worry, my uncle said he'd be taking me—I mean, we'd be going together to the British Library tomorrow, and maybe I'll find out what it is.

John is amused by Sherlock's attempts to talk like an adult.

"But. . . what is that?"

Sherlock points to a man at another table holding a Windows Phone, "What _is _that?"

* * *

><p>John across him looks a little worried. Sherlock is still in 1986. Mobile phones, moreover touch screens, weren't in use back then.<p>

"Playing thing?" he suggests weakly.

But Sherlock pushes back the chair enthusiastically and strides over to the person with the phone. Angelo and John rush after him, but Sherlock is ahead of them.

"Hello," he says, and he looks frankly terrifying, towering with his height and in his childlike innocence. Who knew that nine-year-old Sherlock in a thirty-seven-year old body could be this terrifying without his basic understanding of human conventions in behaviour?

The man looks up, "Yes?"

"Can I see that?"

And before the man can look any more surprised and Sherlock can look any more interested, John snatches the phone out of the man's grip and smashes the thing on the floor. The entire cafe looks around at the noise.

"Hey!" Sherlock and the victim both cry out, looking equally murderous. John's face is red, much like Angelo's. Without any hesitation, he pulls out his wallet, determinedly avoiding every eye in the cafe. There isn't much, just his lottery tickets, a couple hundred, his debit card, his Oyster Card and his IDs. For a minute he contemplates giving the man his debit card and his PIN as a compensation. . . but then Sherlock would probably ask him what a debit card was.

"I'm sorry, very, very sorry. I'll pay for your loss," John says at once, shielding Sherlock from the wrath, "I'm extremely sorry for this. It's just, well. . ." he laughs nervously, "nerves, I suppose. I have a. . . erm, a tendency. . . to destroy. But don't worry, I'll buy you another phone. A better one. The latest model. Whatever you ask."

The man rises, as does his girlfriend, shaking with anger, "Do you even know what was in that phone? Do you even know what a bloody phone is?!"

"Not really," Sherlock pipes up from behind John nonchalantly.

The girlfriend looks at Sherlock as if he were an alien and makes a disgusted noise. The man, however, reaches around John and grabs Sherlock by the collar of his shirt.

"You were the one who started it, wasn't you, you prick?"

"Show them sweetie! Show them your special moves!" The girlfriend cheers unceremoniously. John throws her a dirty look.

"Now, now," Angelo tries to cool a protesting John, "all of this outside the cafe."

Sherlock looks scared, and points at John, "He's the one who broke—"

"You don't know what a phone is, do you? I'll show you what a phone is," and with that, the man sets to take his anger out on Sherlock with a punch to his face. But before he can hit him, John drags the man away with a shout of "he's a bloody child!" and sends him crashing into a nearby table.

"Now!" Angelo barks at the lot, "No violence in my cafe! Go away!"

* * *

><p>A minute later, the man (now somewhat injured), his girlfriend (injured ego), Angelo (injured customer feedback), Sherlock (with a bruise in his cheekbones) and John (almost a broken hand) are all behind 221A, in the alley, for taking Sherlock through the main road would've meant more disaster and exposure to more things which were only there in the 21st century.<p>

"This is ridiculous," the man's bad-tampered hasn't come down a bit while John lets himself be manhandled by him, "you will get me another phone right now!"

"Look just," John screws up his face in the anticipation of a blow, "let me down, and I'll pay you in full, okay? Just let me down."

Meanwhile, Sherlock is still puzzled by the chain of events.

John digs into his wallet, parting with his cab fare without any remorse, "Here's fifty. And my fucking number, in case you need _more_!" he tosses in a card and looks at the man and his girlfriend with utter distaste. How little they valued things in their lives. Why didn't such disasters happen to people like them?

John catches himself. Nobody deserved what happened to him and Sherlock.

After the couple are out of there, Sherlock also begins to walk away, a bit indignantly, back into Angelo's. Impulsively, John calls out a bit too authoritatively.

"Where're you going?"

Sherlock pauses a bit, glances like he's stolen something, and then rushes away faster. John calms himself down, remembering that Sherlock did not have any obligation to answer his anymore.

"Hey! Where're you going?" he says cautiously, glancing at Angelo. Damn it, he thinks. He really shouldn't have lost control, and now he's only a child, and John really couldn't go around beating everybody who was a threat to Sherlock and he should be calmer and more sensible and approach Sherlock in a non-threatening way. . .

Angelo gives him a look and begins to rush after Sherlock, but John quickly drags him by the sleeve, "Just make sure he's in the cafe, that he doesn't want to go out the main door."

Angelo glances at Sherlock's retreating back, "He usually leaves out the back. . . you know, closer to the flat and all."

"Umm yeah," John exhales, "but he must be upset. . . well, if he was adult-Sherlock, he'd have thrown a temper tantrum about not being given a chance to examine the phone and everything, wouldn't have given a damn about the fighting, but. . . he's wee Sherlock," he sighs and shrugs, "just go after him."

Angelo hurries into the building. John wonders how long it would be until he'd be able to understand and differentiate between wee-Sherlock and his-fiancé-Sherlock.

But when he sneaks into the cafe through the back, he's met by a surprise both pleasant and unpleasant.

Sherlock is sitting still in his corner of the cafe, examining the cover of the broken phone like an precious, long-lost relic. The cafe looks significantly deserted after The Fight.

Sherlock doesn't look the slightest bit disturbed or upset, as John had thought wee-Sherlock would have been, accounting to his sensitive childhood issues. Busy examining the phone cover, too busy to even notice John. Perhaps Mycroft was right, after all. Sherlock was still happy and . . . normal back then.

Upon seeing Angelo calling him towards the restroom, John rushes to him. Angelo looks intensely relieved.

"What happened?"

Relief changes to smugness on Angelo's face, "What d'you think?"

"I—I thought he'd be. . . well, upset that I had broken what he had wanted to examine! Plus the brawl. . ."

"He got what he wanted. So no worries," Angelo says, with a smirk on his face.

"Meaning?"

"He wanted to examine the broken phone. So I gave him the cover and told him that he could examine the rest tomorrow. No date, no machinery on the cover. For all that Sherlock said about us being idiots, not true after all."

John couldn't help but smile. Also couldn't help but think about one thing. How they were all taking advantage of Sherlock's memory loss into fooling him. John didn't know about anyone else, but he sure as hell did not like his best friend, his love, his enigma being made a fool out of by everyone he thought beneath his intelligence.

And he sure as hell did not like being a part of it.

Sensing John's dilemma, Angelo pats his arm, "Come on, John. Nobody likes it. I pray to God every night to forgive me for what I am doing to Sherlock, to you. But. . . there's no other way."

John gives him a placid smile, "Even this much is asking too much of you, Angelo. I don't know how to thank you."

"No need to thank me. You can, although, tip the blonde waitress over there," he points towards the counter, "thanks to her quick cleanup right after the fight, Sherlock never got his hands on the broken equipment."

* * *

><p>It's only after John decides it a safe territory that he goes and sits near a completely occupied Sherlock. It's fascinating, watching him so alive, so busy, so absorbed, and for that one miraculous second, oh God, that fire comes back into those blue eyes, blue like the Bunsen flame, and Holy Mary, it's so beautiful, so ever engaging that for one second, John forgets how insignificant a thing Sherlock is examining.<p>

Makes him go back to those days, days when he shouted at Sherlock and Sherlock ignored him over a specimen under his microscope, and John wonders why the hell he hadn't set everything aside, sat at their kitchen table and just gazed at that man immersed in his work. . .

* * *

><p><em>9th October, 2013<em>

_"Get the phone for me," a deep, frankly disturbing cough, "please?"_

_"I'm busy, John."_

_John sticks his head out of the restroom after going through a series of violent throw-ups in the toilet bowl. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, his eyes sunken into sockets, lined with black circles, hoping that his look might inspire Sherlock to help him in the worst of times, "I'm sick."_

_"No point telling me. Should've put it in the voicemail instead."_

_John feels a fresh wave of nausea wash over him. He bends over until his head feels better than worse, "The phone's just beside you."_

_Sherlock is quiet for a minute, and then he calls out loudly, "Mrs. Hudson!"_

_John groans, "Oh dear God, no. . . " and another wave._

_"You should thank me," Sherlock goes back to his work, a little put-out, "I solved your little problem."_

_"Yeah, I did not ask you to call Mrs. Hudson up and fuss all over me, I can take care of myself. I'm a doctor."_

_"No, I called her up to answer your phone. Since you're so capable of taking care of yourself and won't let me "interfere"."_

_John could seriously contemplate suicide after murder at this point, "If you really want to help, you. . ." and another disgusting sounding round of puking, ". . . you could start by answering the phone. It's. . . " and another, "getting on my nerves!"_

_"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson comes in jumpily, "It sounds really peaceful in here."_

_"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, very subtle," Sherlock gives her a fake smile straining across his cheeks that always communicates need for favour._

_"Oh dear, what's happening?"_

_"John is sick, and he won't let me help him."_

_"How_—_" and another round, "_—_clever! You're the worst boyfriend ever!"_

_At first Mrs. Hudson looks visibly shaken at the news of the doctor being sick, but instantly giggles like a schoolgirl who thinks she understands everything about the world. She approaches John, "Oh, I did not hear that! John, let me help you_—_oh, dear God, I think I'll just make you some soup instead. How about you, Sherlock?"_

_Sherlock gives her a pleased smile, "Creamy mushroom and corn, with black pepper, peas and those herbs you bought on Thursday."_

_Her eyes narrow, "That was supposed to be secret, young man!"_

_"Were supposed to be but actually aren't."_

_"I'm the one who's sick!" John protests, upon hearing Mrs. Hudson cheerfully complying with Sherlock's extravagant soup recipes._

_"You stay tight, John, I am not your housekeeper!" and then she goes over to Sherlock and pats his arm, "I'll get those herbs, you take good care of John."_

_Sherlock smiles, "I will."_

_"And I'm fine with tomato, thanks!" John calls after her, only to end up in a violent coughing fit._

_Once she's out, John looks at Sherlock murderously, "I hate you."_

_"Careful, you might dislodge one of your organs with that coughing."_

_"That's it. I'm breaking up with you."_

_Sherlock then looks at him, his eyes now silver and fierce, "Oh please, I'm the only one who knows that you prefer hands over mouth! You'll never break up with me!"_

_From downstairs, Mrs. Hudson calls out, "I didn't hear anything!"_

* * *

><p>". . . what material can this be?"<p>

John's shaken back into reality. He blinks at Sherlock. The fire in those eyes is absent. It's not fierce anymore. It's just. . . not.

"Me?"

"Yes, I'm talking to you. Anyone else, and I'd have to shout."

John half-smiles, half-frowns in anxiety. Why would Sherlock want to talk to him? After the fighting and the brawl and the. . .

"I don't know, some kind of plastic, perhaps?"

Sherlock considers it, "Interesting. I have never seen a. . . erm, what did you call this, John?"

John looks at Sherlock for a second time, with incredulity and hope in his eyes, "You. . . remember me?"

Sherlock looks at him like he's an idiot. An actual village idiot. But John doesn't care. He grabs Sherlock's hand, and the other looks alarmed, not to mention a bit too flushed. But it doesn't matter. Sherlock remembers him, yes he does. He took his name. Oh God, he's recovering. They're going back to normal, and it's going to be alright now.

"Sherlock, tell me you remember me," John begs, "my name. Say it again! Please!"

Sherlock looks confused, "Erm. . . John?"

John laughs out like a maniac, "Yes, yes! You know my name!"

Now Sherlock makes an annoyed face, "You told me your name was John."

And John deflates. The ray of hope that had shone through for just a tiny, golden moment vanishes again, "Did I?"

"Before your brawl. I have a good memory."

John settles back in his chair after a sidelong glance at Angelo, "Oh, sorry."

"No matter what you say," Sherlock politely extracts his hand from John's grip, "I'm not that friend of yours."

John, having forgotten his chat-up line, looks at him confusedly, "What?"

Sherlock looks at him through narrowed eyes, "You need to check your brain with a doctor, Mr. John."

_Talk about memory loss, _John thinks.

After Sherlock's finished with looking at John suspiciously, he goes back to his initial query, "You said this was a phone, yes?"

John's still dazed with the excitement, answers tiredly, "Oh yes, phone."

As Sherlock sits examining the glossy back cover and deciphering the meaning of 5.0 MP, John thinks, wonders. Takes a deep breath and goes through all that he had hastily taught himself before coming to the cafe: _Sherlock was a child, he hated being treated like a child, but he must treat him with patiently and tenderly. And he must not make a fool of himself. Must think through everything before speaking. Must exercise more caution with wee-Sherlock than with his-fiancé-Sherlock._

Sherlock looks so engrossed in his "research" that John can't help but feel guilty for breaking the phone: not for the man's sake, but for Sherlock's.

"Um. . . Sherlock?"

Fox-like silver eyes look at him. John takes another deep breath.

_Close your eyes, he's not your fiancé anymore. He's a kid. Stop thinking that he's. . ._

"I'm—" he hesitates, "well, first, I'm sorry for breaking the phone. I didn't know you wanted it so badly—"

"That's no excuse," Sherlock says loftily, and John is a little surprised at the abrupt change in his demeanour. Sherlock hadn't been very offended at the beginning. But thinking that he deserved it, John continues.

"I know, I know—"

"How do you know my name?" Sherlock now looks genuinely suspicious, and John had to remind himself that whatever he had turned into, he was still, in a way, the future only consulting detective in the world.

John gives a faux-innocent smile, "What?"

"I never told you my name."

"Um. . . Angelo told me! Yes, Angelo told me."

Sherlock seems to turn sour, "That idiot."

John laughs childishly, "Yeah, such an idiot, such an idiot—!"

He stops upon seeing Sherlock's impassive face.

"Okay, okay," John puts his hands up, "look, all I was saying is that I'm sorry for breaking the phone when you wanted it so much."

"Yes, bad. Very bad."

John doesn't look up, "I shouldn't have—"

"You shouldn't have."

But when he does look up, Sherlock is smiling. Sherlock realises this one second too late and tries to make his expression sterner, but it falters under John's slightly pissed gaze. It's much easier to dominate Sherlock now, John thinks with a pang, as Sherlock gives away easily under the scrutiny of John's faux-suspicious face. John isn't sure if he's ever going to get used to manipulating Sherlock so easily.

He slaps himself on the hand, "Why can't I control my expressions?!"

"You'll learn when you grow up."

Sherlock looks at him sharply, "Just because I slipped up about me being nine doesn't mean. . ." he takes a deep breath before continuing and John has to wonder whether this absurd condition had also taken away Sherlock's ability to launch into a monologue, "doesn't mean—does not mean that I already don't look like an adult."

John can only imagine what his-fiancé-Sherlock would've thought of a statement like that. Maybe something like _don't state the obvious, wee-Sherlock._

With a silent swear under his breath, Sherlock returns to his investigation, which, as it turns out, is getting boring. John can see disinterest starting to flicker in Sherlock's face, only much slower than it used to be.

"So. . ."

Sherlock blatantly ignores him. John decides to press on. Takes a look at his hand, wanting to touch him, and shakes himself inwardly. He has to stop trying to think that Sherlock would ever reciprocate.

"You were enjoying my apology, weren't you?"

The tiny glimmer of that devious smile that Sherlock tries so hard to control is too much for John to resist. However, he keeps his distance.

"I thought, well. . . that you were upset."

Sherlock now turns to him, genuinely confused, "Upset?"

"I did beat up a man in front of you. Shouldn't have done that."

Sherlock looks away, fiddling with the mobile cover. His wrinkles, a small white in his hair are obvious to John, and it's just not right, it shouldn't exist, the ability of the brain to undergo such drastic changes, and especially of Sherlock Holmes' brain, should not exist, just should not be. It's plain wrong to see Sherlock so. . . gullible.

He shrugs, a glance at John so chaste, and yet so shrewd, "It was cool."

Now it's John's turn to look at Sherlock with incredulity, "Oh, well. . . you really shouldn't say that."

Sherlock turns sour at once, "Why? Because I'm a child?" and then he looks down, all pouting and muttering, "I wish I never told you that. You keep pointing it out."

John looks at him for several moments, trying to come up with an appropriate response. Sherlock seems really interested in him, but not in the way John was used to, or rather used to be used to. Then, he just puts his hands up and says, "Well, even I shouldn't say such things. Not just you."

"Well you shouldn't have done that either," and Sherlock's enjoying this again. John smiles kindly at him.

"I could let you have more parts to examine."

Sherlock's eyes widen.

"Yes, that's right. More parts to examine before tomorrow."

Sherlock looks excited. Also looks like he's trying his best not to give himself away, "Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm sorry."

Sherlock then smiles shyly to himself, "You did a good thing, actually."

"Meaning?"

"If you didn't break the phone," and he says 'the phone' like it's a historical landmark, "I wouldn't have had a chance to examine it, even if broken. That man didn't look like he wouldn't part with it."

John chuckles, "Oh really?"

Sherlock then decides something and leans closer to him, "I could also tell that he really wasn't into his girlfriend."

John decides to test him, "How do you know that it was his girlfriend? She could've been anyone."

Sherlock makes a face at him, "She called him 'sweetie'. You really should get your brain checked."

John tries to push him further, "He seemed posh. He wouldn't bring his girlfriend into a simple cafe like this, would he?"

This throws Sherlock off-track. John watches Sherlock think through, fascinated.

"Maybe they made a stop, because they were really hungry."

"They had just the coffee. Not very hungry."

Sherlock looks at him with a bit of wonder and a lot of perplexity, and John thinks that maybe now he's much better than Sherlock at the latter's strongest point: deduction. And then he turns irritated.

"You're—stop looking at me, you're distracting me!"

"Come on, Sherlock," John pushes him further, "I know you're better than excuses."

"That's what my brother says, and I don't like it!"

John gives him a look, and Sherlock looks like he's giving the little problem one last shot: what the couple were really doing in the cafe.

"Maybe," Sherlock starts slowly, "they ran into each other nearby and the woman picked the location. But they're. . . not sailing good, because the man looked at his phone more than the woman, so the man couldn't care any less."

"That could be it."

"The woman chose a location where she could pay for herself should the man walk out on her."

_Holy cow, _John thinks. He never expected Sherlock to have such a deep insight at such a young age.

"So effectively, you've prevented a breakup."

Now it's John's turn to be thrown off-track, "What?"

"Well, if they were about to break up, you obviously diverted their thoughts away to where the man could show off his manliness and the woman turned to nurturing her man's wounds. . ." he takes a recharge pause before continuing, "That is the traditional male-female role in the society, that's what I've read."

John looks at him disbelievingly. Did his-fiancé-Sherlock actually know these things? "You're nine."

Sherlock is smug, "I'm clever."

"That was. . . well, amazing."

"My brother does it better. But I'll be better than him when I grow up."

John chuckles and gets up, "I'll keep my end of the promise." Feeling ecstatic about his progress for the day, he goes to Angelo with a hitch in his step, gets his prize after much persuading, and gives to Sherlock the SD card to examine. Just watches the man-child, literal man-child now, with longing wringing tight in his gut. Can't help but think how big a part sex was of their relationship, and can't help but think how impossible that is now. It's only been a couple of days and he can't stand the thought of even kissing him.

But Sherlock looks blissful, and John can't help but think how different this Sherlock is, and yet so same. As far as John can remember, as a child he'd never go near strangers who fought on the road, or anywhere for that matter. Sherlock seems far liberal in that matter.

"I'm bored now," Sherlock exclaims out of the blue, "I'm going back."

Alarm seizes John, "Back where?"

"To my place. And," after a moment of deliberation, he adds, "I am an adult. So you don't ask me where I go."

John puts his hands up, "Sorry. I was just going to head out, and well. . ."

"Out? Out where?"

"I thought you weren't supposed to ask adults where they were going," John smiles.

Sherlock's lips curl, "You asked me, I answered you. Now it's your turn."

John laughs, "Okay. . . I'm well. . . out for a walk."

Sherlock thinks, like really thinks, like a kid doing a math problem. His eyes narrow, and he beckons John over. John approaches him. There's no scent in the man, nothing like it previously used to be, of sweat and musk and sometimes, fresh earth. Distinctively masculine. Now, just a whiff of toothpaste, and the odour of coca presumably from a chocolate cake he must've helped himself to in the morning, as it was their "Uncle Rudy's birthday". Sherlock scans him carefully, pokes him in the arm, and compares their heights, at which point John begins to feel really uncomfortable.

"What're you doing?"

Sherlock responds by casually hitting John on the arm.

"Look, if I hadn't known that you were a child, I'd have broken every bone in your body!"

"Shhh!" and another blow, more powerful, and John succumbs.

"Ow!"

"Sorry," Sherlock says instinctively, but then clears his throat, as if taking back his unintended apology, "Good. I can overpower you any time you try and kidnap me."

John frowns, "What the—why would I kidnap you?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, as if John is too stupid for a grownup to not have figured it out at that instant, "Well," he folds his arms behind his back, looking down at John with so much hope and innocence that it's almost dizzying, "I'd like you to take me out."

The wording from when Sherlock asked himself out on a date with John is same, making John feel weaker.

"Out—out where?" He proceeds carefully. As much as he'd love to, he really can't take Sherlock, can't risk him finding out that he's no longer in 1986. And he really doesn't want to find out what Sherlock would do if that happened.

"Anywhere. And then you bring me back—I mean _we_ walk back here."

* * *

><p><em>16th August, 2013<em>

_"Well, since you are going to, as they say, "beat around the bush", yes, I'd like you to take me out. And, no, this dinner doesn't count as a date. I expect you to make your preparations."_

_John chokes on his pasta, "What?"_

_He had been meaning to ask Sherlock out properly over their dinner, but even after sleeping with him, John hadn't been able to gather the courage. He knew by experience that starting a relationship with sex never ended well. He just wanted to properly date Sherlock, as ridiculous as that sounded, before having sex again, and obviously before Sherlock settled for 'boyfriend'._

_"Although I believe that you really don't need to date me, we do need to compromise in a relationship."_

_John chokes for a second time, "Relationship?"_

_Sherlock looks thrown off-track, and John has to remind himself that he has an ego that is more fragile than most, "I_—_oh. . ."_

_"No, it's_—"

_"I didn't realise."_

_The silence hangs awkwardly around them. John takes another mouthful before talking again, "Look, I'm just saying that. . . I. . . want. . . to. . . slow. . . things. . . down. . . a bit."_

_"Slow_—_?"_

_"And don't you dare say that slow is boring," John interrupts before Sherlock can speak any further, "because I swear that if you ever call this relationship "boring", I swear I'll have your guts for garters."_

_Sherlock looks at him for a long, disconcerting amount of time, before smirking to himself, "Garters are sexy."_

_John grits his teeth, "And if you ever try and distract me like that. . ."_

_"You'll break up with me."_

_"Um. . . no. I'll withhold sex for a month."_

_Sherlock chuckles, "Talk about slow."_

* * *

><p>They're in a bus, going nowhere. John has no choice, no, he really doesn't, except to take Sherlock out. He's told Angelo, assured him that he'd not take Sherlock anywhere far, and to hold the fort in case Mycroft comes around earlier than usual.<p>

Sherlock looks like he's never been out in the street. He's constantly asking questions, about everything he sees, and everything he touches and comes across. It comes as a surprise to John, how open and trusting wee-Sherlock is. As far as John remembers, he never approached strangers when he was nine. He was always distrustful, except for those who looked like they really needed help.

But then, John couldn't help but think that even though memory had forced John out of Sherlock's mind, there was possibly still a place for him in his heart. That there perhaps was still an unconscious familiarity based out of the good times and the bad times they had spent together.

As medically untrue as the doctors had declared it, when John had asked them whether Sherlock still had any chance of remembering out of what they had for each other.

"I've never seen a phone."

"Well um, they're sort of new."

"That's why there are not in our town yet," Sherlock nods, "They're new, so they're in London first. New things come to London first."

"That's right."

"What do they do?"

"They. . . I don't know. I just saw them in ads."

"Ads? On the television?"

"Uh. . . yeah."

"You have a television too?"

"Yeah, I do."

"We have only eleven in our town. Mummy says it's very costly."

"You like watching television?"

Sherlock nods, "Seeing things is more believable than reading about them. I like the television."

John smiles, "You like reading a lot too, don't you?"

"Not when I'm told to. I don't really like books."

John's eyes widen in surprise. He had never really expected wee-Sherlock to not like books. He had always thought of him as a boy who loved knowledge and anything that gave him knowledge, and he had always imagined a younger Sherlock to have his head buried, soaking up information.

Or at least, he had always imagined wee-Sherlock as a complete nerd. But then, now that he thought of it, he could not remember Sherlock ever reading, except for a case or a treatise on law, British or otherwise.

"You don't like books?"

"They're so inconvenient. They're written by people, and I have to trust their knowledge and agree with their understanding. And they're heavy to carry around."

John nods. That explanation makes sense, or at least sounds like Sherlock would agree with it.

"I don't trust science books, at least. But my teachers, they don't like hearing about that."

"Nobody does."

Sherlock looks at him suspiciously, "You don't mind. Do you?"

John watches him for a long time, thinking of an answer that won't blow Sherlock off, and then decides to go with, "Well, how would I know? I'm not a teacher, am I?"

Sherlock goes back to childishly swing his legs back and forth, even though his legs are too long for his feet continue to sweep across the floor of the bus. John tries not to think of it. Thankfully, they don't come across any dates or anything, and whenever Sherlock sees something that never existed in 1986, John can easily brush it off as something that already exists in London. And Sherlock easily believes him.

And John can't help but think that Sherlock, as a child, must have been ridiculously easy to kidnap.

"London is very different."

"It is."

"I like London."

"Hmm."

"What do you do?"

"Me? I'm a doctor."

That lightens Sherlock's face back up, "So you would know about my condition, wouldn't you?"

_Oh, crap! _"No, I wouldn't know of that. I do something else."

"What?"

"I'm a trauma surgeon."

"You. . . surgery on traumatised people?"

John tries not to think what his-fiancé-Sherlock would've thought of wee-Sherlock for saying such a thing, "No, I treat bad injuries. Like, really bad."

"Just because I am nine doesn't mean you have to baby-talk me. I'm capable of understanding jargon."

"Okay. You get shot, I take the bullet out of you and stitch you back up. You get impaled, we call the plastics and anthro and we get you back. Accidents, cut-off legs, emergencies. . ."

"You are a reliable source of information," Sherlock sounds very pleased, and as a big ego boost to John, very, very impressed.

"I suppose I am."

"So, tell me about. . ."

And John has a hunch that he might have inadvertently turned their little date into a study session.

* * *

><p>"Don't you have a problem with talking to strangers?"<p>

"Talking to strangers pisses my mummy—" a clear of throat, "my mother off. So I do it."

John's vaguely amused by Sherlock correcting himself on 'mummy', "Saying "piss" too pisses your mother off too, don't you think?"

Sherlock smirks, "Exactly."

* * *

><p>"And it wasn't my fault! Percy McCluskey thinks Darwin is a fraud. I said Darwin was brilliant. But he says that Darwin is a liar and that we didn't come from monkeys. And I said that we did <em>not, <em>in fact, come from monkeys, we have a common ancestor."

"So, he punched you."

"And I kicked back at him," Sherlock sounds proud of himself, "and he wet himself!"

* * *

><p>"The ladies at the Mass told my mummy that I was a bad boy and needed to be sent away. She cried so hard that I just tried to show her what a good boy I really was."<p>

John nods, understanding, and just a bit sad. He had, after all, expected bullying in Sherlock's early life, "So you tried to. . ."

"I wanted to build a nuclear reactor so that I could provide free electricity to the whole town. I was sick of being called the bad boy, and that I was _possessed by the Devil himself_."

John touches him on the arm. Sherlock looks so sad for a moment.

"Of course, they said that it had to be shut down a month ago. And the talks began again."

After a long, melancholy moment, John asks again, "I'm sorry, what did you say your age was again?"

"Nine. You really need a brain scan. There might be a tumour in the section that controls the memory."

* * *

><p>"We should head back."<p>

Sherlock looks startled, "Why? I'm having fun."

They're sitting at the Trafalgar Square. John can actually see one of Sherlock's homeless network people looking at the two of them. Sherlock quietly finishes his ice-cream while looking up at John.

"Your Uncle Rudy will be getting back. They'll miss you, and they'd worry when they hear that you went out with a stranger."

"You're not a stranger," Sherlock shrugs.

John gives him a rueful smile. Even though Sherlock's voice is the same deep baritone, John thinks he's starting to hear the slow, innocent voice of the child in his soul.

After a long moment, Sherlock speaks, almost inaudibly, "Do you want to know why those rumours started?"

"What rumours?"

"That I had the Devil inside me."

John blinks, "How?"

Sherlock looks down at the ground. _This one really got to him, perhaps_, John thinks. Finally, after it looks like Sherlock has gathered enough courage, he looks up at John.

"I had a friend. His name was Henry. He was the only one who'd sit in the class with me. He doesn't have a leg, so he could not play, and I never liked playing with boys and girls. We'd share lunch during recess. He was my best friend."

John frowns, "Was?"

"I. . . uh, I liked him very much and. . ."

And it dawns on John.

". . . I tried to kiss him. It got very ugly. He hit me with one of his crutches, and then his big brother came and. . . I said I was sorry and. . ."

John looks back at Sherlock. Sherlock is looking at him for approval, he realises.

"Well. . . you should've at least given him a heads up. Girl or boy, nobody likes to be—"

"Is it wrong to kiss a boy?"

John looks him in the eye, "Do you believe it is?"

"You tell me first."

"No."

Sherlock nods, and looks deep in thought, "What did you mean by a heads-up?"

It's uncomfortable territory for John now, "Well, something like, _I'm going to kiss you now. _You know, just prepare 'em for it."

"Ok. I'm going to kiss you now."

John's heart skips a beat at the easy way Sherlock says it, "What?"

Sherlock detracts himself from his sudden way, "The way you act around me is the same way I acted around Henry."

John chuckles disbelievingly, "Let's get you back."

"Don't you want to kiss me? John?"

John looks at Sherlock, feeling the old longing, the craving claw its way up his gut. It's his kiss for the day, and by God, he wants it. For a second, his deprived subconscious even deludes him into thinking that his Sherlock is calling from within, as if a true love's kiss could break the curse upon them.

Agony overwhelms him and he wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck tightly. And for the first time, in three months, John cries. And it doesn't feel any better.

"I do," his voice cracks, just a bit, and he covers it up with a clear of his throat, "but you're just. . . nine."

"You won't be a paedophile," an unsure hand pats his back.

After a minute or couple, he lets go and wipes his tears off. Sherlock looks away.

"I'll be seeing you tomorrow," he says with an air of finality.

John clenches his fists, enough for his nails to draw blood, "You will. Every day."

"And I will kiss you one day."

John looks at him. Wondering if he's stronger or weaker since Day 1 for having denied himself the kiss.

"Let's get you back home."

* * *

><p><strong>Nuclear reactor thing: Oh yes, it's familiar from Sheldon in BBT.<strong>

**Darwin: I don't intend to offend any Christian who doesn't believe in Darwin's 'survival of the fittest' theory. But you've gotta admit, Sherlock would love Darwin and will also long for the opportunity to go on a ship and explore the Galapagos Island.**

**Yeah I know, it's going a bit of kid!lock too. . . but what can I do? That's part of the story!**


End file.
